


Only Human

by SilentAuror



Series: The Ice Man and the Virgin [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, POV Mycroft Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:43:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilentAuror/pseuds/SilentAuror
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to The Ice Man and the Fire. It’s been three years and Mycroft still bears the weight of his guilt. Post-Reichenbach, slight angst.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only Human

**Only Human**

**Part II**

The palm of his hand pushed down against the button that controlled the steady beeping emitting from the alarm clock the instant it went off and Mycroft Holmes was awake. 

He had never been one to linger; there was always so much to do and it was difficult enough to switch off his mind long enough to sleep as it was. His feet were pushing into slippers left with deliberation at the side of his bed and he moved off toward the shower. The hot water beat down upon his skin and he thought, another day. Reviewing the tasks that lay ahead, he felt a certain weariness. He was getting older, after all, but really, he was in the prime of his life at forty-four. There was no reason to feel so weary. It was just another day. 

This heaviness was not new, however. If he thought about it, Mycroft knew exactly how far back he could trace it. It had started with Coventry, but really it was that ghastly day when Detective Inspector Lestrade had called with the news of Sherlock’s… fall. Mycroft had never been squeamish about death (one of the few things he and Sherlock had always had in common), but thoughts of his brother’s death were so laden with guilt, self-recrimination, and pain that he could barely stand to think of it at all. It had become a taboo subject in his own mind, something to jerk his thoughts away from when his mind strayed that way, like a hand away from an open flame. He couldn’t bear it, he who had always been so resolutely emotionless and distanced. There was no escaping the fact that the loss of his brother had destroyed some part of his façade irreparably, caused him lasting damage and pain. The grief he’d felt, part and parcel of the guilt regarding his own involvement in Sherlock’s downfall, had left him incapable of carrying out any real work for weeks. 

He’d attended the funeral, silent throughout. Lestrade had given the eulogy, a touching one and tinged with his own guilt. Sherlock’s legal status, even post-mortem, had still been in question but there had been no question that Lestrade regretted having doubted Sherlock. John Watson had stared at the pew in front of him, alone in the second row behind Mycroft, who was alone in the first. Their mother had not been able to leave her nursing home to attend. Mycroft had had someone communicate to Watson that he was welcome to sit with “the family”, knowing that it would only be himself, and Watson had stonily refused, choosing to sit by himself. It was as far from Mycroft as he could be without denying the place due to him at the funeral of his… of Sherlock. Mycroft had given him a wide berth at the burial and left him alone with Mrs Hudson afterwards, escaping into one of his many government-issued black cars and into the empty solace of his flat. He’d drunk himself into oblivion, cursing himself and the universe, at one point hurling a crystal tumbler into the fireplace where it had shattered, the remnants of whisky flaming blue. 

Lestrade had spoken to him briefly after the service, said he’d be in touch with more details. Mycroft had listened mutely, nodding as some part of his mind that still worked filed away the officer’s words. He’d made good on the promise, too, waiting a tactful week before contacting Mycroft again with news that there was more information. The body of James Moriarty had been discovered on the rooftop of St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, time of death just minutes before Sherlock’s reported time of death. Shot in the mouth by what appeared to be his own gun. Mycroft had his own people inspect the body minutely, while Molly Hooper stood by, unprotesting. Surely she wanted Sherlock’s name cleared as much as Mycroft did, he’d thought, watching her through the observation window and averting his eyes from Moriarty’s corpse. They’d searched extensively and found no trace whatsoever of Sherlock’s finger prints on either the gun or Moriarty’s skin. It was conclusively ruled as a suicide, no sign whatsoever of Sherlock’s involvement. Mycroft had made strong arguments for the reverse, that Moriarty’s presence on the rooftop had likely contributed strongly to his brother’s suicide. Hooper had not allowed them to see Sherlock’s body. She’d been extremely firm on that point, even when Mycroft insisted that he need not be personally involved. She told him nonetheless that it had already been processed and that there had been no trace of Moriarty’s finger prints on the body whatsoever. Mycroft accepted this, but it meant nothing – he knew Moriarty, knew the extent of his power to get inside people’s heads, and guessed that whatever he’d said to Sherlock had pushed him too far. He’d surely talked Sherlock off that rooftop. It should be ruled as a murder, not a suicide, but when both victim and perpetrator were already dead, what difference did it make?

None, Mycroft thought, shutting off the flow of water. None whatsoever. Sherlock was gone. 

***

He took his time grinding the beans for his coffee and put some bread in the toaster. It was still early, well before six o’clock. He had time. The day would bring its usual load of work, each task to be completed as its demands presented themselves. It was a Monday. There would be lots to do this week. He would pick up the papers and scan the international and then local news to see which stories had made it into the public eye. He’d taken up keeping tabs on local crime as well in the past three years. For one thing, Lestrade often kept him informed if he thought it was important enough to merit Mycroft’s attention, and for another, somehow it seemed only right that someone should be keeping an eye on that, now that Sherlock was gone. He’d never been entirely sure why Lestrade kept him in the loop like that. Maybe it was a similar reason, that without Sherlock he wasn’t sure to whom to turn when he was mystified or felt out of his depth. Perhaps it was also partly gratitude. With Moriarty conclusively pronounced a suicide, his presence on the rooftop and Sherlock’s consequent suicide had proved more or less that Sherlock had been innocent, that Richard Brook had been the fraud. Moriarty’s prints were not on record – but Richard Brook’s were, and they didn’t match Moriarty’s. Hooper had announced this with relief, babbling away on the phone in Mycroft’s ear until he’d cut her off. Sherlock’s name had been more or less cleared, and with it, Lestrade’s. 

He’d seen or spoken to the detective inspector semi-regularly since the funeral. Once or twice Lestrade had called with a question regarding something international, or needing a contact in Interpol. Mycroft had been slightly bemused, but had instructed his secretaries and security personnel to give Lestrade’s calls priority access to his private line and was content enough to provide the man with information. They spoke about Sherlock now and again, just passing references, usually. Mycroft appreciated these, appreciated the fact that someone other than himself (and presumably John Watson) remembered Sherlock for who he had been, the brilliant, erratic genius that he’d been. 

As for John, Mycroft had not seen him – not live, at least – since the funeral. He still watched him, still had security on him. He’d reduced the grade a notch after Sherlock’s death, but he was well aware that Moriarty knew how significant the doctor had been to Sherlock and that Watson’s security would likely never be entirely relaxed. And Mycroft had enough guilt on his hands. He could at least ensure that the doctor lived, though only to a point. The first six months saw a lot of visits to the therapist, a lot of sitting motionless in the sitting room at 221B Baker Street. Though he’d told Mrs Hudson initially (in at least one phone call that Mycroft’s people had tapped) that he could not stay in the flat, he had not moved out. Or moved on, evidently. He stopped working and didn’t return for those first six months. Mycroft discreetly made deposits to John’s bank account, and if John suspected the source, he neither complained nor acknowledged it. He knew that Lestrade saw John occasionally and was glad. He’d started working again, and went on a few half-hearted-seeming dates. He saw no woman more than once, and saw no man even that often. He spent a few nights at various dates’ flats but never brought anyone back to Baker Street, for which Mycroft was somehow grateful. It wasn’t that he thought that Watson owed his brother his eternal faithfulness, especially when they’d not actually started a romantic relationship, but… nonetheless. The feeling of gratitude persisted. He had a better clinic call Watson with a job offer, which Watson turned down. Mycroft waited two weeks, then sent another call John’s way. That time he accepted gratefully and started working full-time again, just to keep him busy enough to fend off the depression. 

Mycroft had done what he could to rectify the situation, but obviously there was nothing he could really do. The greatest possible damage had already been done. Sherlock was dead. There was no replacing him. Perhaps only a very small circle of people truly mourned him, not just the mind and its abilities, but the (frustrating/amusing/intractable) person he’d been. He had indeed been mourned. It was a dense stone weight that Mycroft carried with him always now, the grief/guilt of Sherlock’s death. He would bear it for the rest of his life; he knew that. He knew that he deserved to carry it, deserved to not be able to move on from it. Perhaps John felt guilty in some way, too. Perhaps, Mycroft wondered, John had wondered that if he had said something, allowed their friendship to become something more, Sherlock would have felt loved enough to survive his public downfall, would have known that John would have stayed by his side. Surely John had told him that. (Mycroft knew he had; he’d heard the conversation on the live feed he’d installed in their sitting room. John’s quiet _No, I know you’re for real_ , Sherlock’s _One hundred percent?_ and John’s wry confirmation.) But had it been enough? For Sherlock had evidently _not_ felt he could survive the humiliation of being called a fraud, publically disgraced. Lestrade had already proven that he would weaken under pressure. Who knew how Mrs Hudson would have reacted? When she read the papers, would she ask him in those quavering, distressed tones what he had done, or would she have had faith in him? Surely John would have had faith in him. Surely Sherlock had known that. But clearly he hadn’t. He’d jumped, after all. Mycroft wished devoutly that he knew whether Moriarty had shot himself before or after Sherlock had jumped. Not that it made any difference now; dead was dead as far as Sherlock was concerned, but it made a difference to Mycroft. Had Moriarty lived to see his great opponent – his _real_ great opponent – defeated, at his own hand? Or had Sherlock watched Moriarty put the gun to his mouth and yet still decided to throw himself from the rooftop? He would never know. 

The coffee had finished dripping; he’d been standing still in front of the machine for several seconds after the brew cycle had completed already. Mycroft picked up the carafe, shaking himself out of his reverie, and poured a cup. The toast had popped up, too, growing cool. He buttered it and took it to his chair in the sitting room. Checked the time. Five forty-three. He ate the toast quickly, drank the coffee, and called for a car. It was waiting, lingering outside his building already. He pulled on his coat, picked up his briefcase, and walked over to the car. Another day ahead. 

***

He exited the elevator and walked down the lushly carpeted corridor to his office. He stopped outside the door, something tingling in his gut. Something felt off. He looked down at the doorknob. Nothing unusual, but… he tried it, and it was unlocked. He never left his office unlocked, especially not before a weekend. He turned it slowly, with a small bit of trepidation, and went inside. 

His high-backed, comfortable desk chair was swivelled away, facing the window. Mycroft never left it like that. He closed the door behind himself, hearing the latch snick into place. He opened his mouth to speak when the chair turned to face him and all the blood drained from his face. 

_Sherlock_. 

_No._

It couldn’t be. But it was. Sherlock, fingers steepled together under his chin, looking at him, waiting for a response, eyes measuring him. 

Mycroft felt the air leave his lungs, only to be drawn sharply back in, felt his heart thudding. “Sherlock.”

“In the flesh,” his brother quipped, and for a wild, panic-stricken moment Mycroft thought of Moriarty. 

He spluttered, entirely at sea. “But – but what are you – you were – ”

“Dead?” Sherlock filled in coolly, brows lifting. “So it would seem, yes.”

Mycroft couldn’t get the words to align themselves properly. “But what – I don’t understand – how – ”

Sherlock smiled, apparently pleased by his reaction. “Glad to see me?”

Mycroft shifted his briefcase to the other hand, and in his shock, answered entirely honestly. “Yes. Very.”

The smile broadened a little. “Confused?”

“Also very,” Mycroft admitted. He crossed the room and put his briefcase down beside his desk, pulled off his coat. 

Sherlock got up, ceding the chair and gesturing vaguely at it, and went around to the visitors’ side. “Go ahead,” he said generously, which was ridiculous; it was Mycroft’s office. He dropped into one of the chairs on the opposite side and waited for Mycroft to sit down, which he did after hanging up his coat. 

They faced each other across the desk. Sherlock had lost weight. He was skinny, almost gaunt, cheekbones protruding as though in a caricature of himself, the spaces between his knuckles dipping too low. “Are you going to explain?” Mycroft asked. He sort of wished it had come out with more edge, but his profound… relief at seeing Sherlock again, alive, was currently outweighing any sharpness he could have found. 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, surprisingly. Mycroft had expected more difficulty, or even an outright refusal. But he went on. “That’s why I’m here. To explain.”

Mycroft studied him. “Where have you been?”

That got another smile, albeit a very tired-seeming one. “Ask where I haven’t been, that would be faster,” Sherlock said. He sighed, glanced away. “All over. It’s all here, you’ll see,” he said vaguely, indicating a thick file folder he’d left on the desk in front of Mycroft. “Don’t open it yet,” he added, seeing Mycroft’s hands twitch toward it. “I want to talk first.”

“That must be a first,” Mycroft said, but he was having difficulty. His throat had grown tight. It was so difficult to take in, that Sherlock was actually _there_. “I don’t understand,” he said plainly. “Sherlock – I thought – everyone thought – that you died in that fall from the rooftop at St. Bartholomew’s. You _did_ jump, didn’t you?”

A shadow crossed his brother’s face. “I did,” he said. “But it was all orchestrated. Molly Hooper helped. The homeless network helped. I did break an ankle, but otherwise it was all a show.”

“For whom?” Mycroft frowned. “For John? Do you know what that did to him?”

Sherlock looked down and right, toward the floor. “I can imagine,” he said, fingers tightening their grip on themselves. 

“I don’t know if you can,” Mycroft warned. “Sherlock, it was – ”

“It wasn’t just for John’s benefit,” Sherlock interrupted. “There were snipers, Mycroft. Moriarty had arranged everything. If I didn’t jump, with them watching, they were going to kill my friends.”

“Which friends, precisely?”

“John, Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade.”

Lestrade. That was a surprise, especially after – Mycroft stopped the thought. Lestrade had been remorseful enough, afterward. He’d paid his dues of contrition. They all had. Mycroft remembered telling Moriarty that he and Sherlock had never been close as boys, noted his absence in this list of Sherlock’s liabilities. It stung, but he deserved it and he knew it. “But Moriarty killed himself…”

“It didn’t matter,” Sherlock said, looking at him again. “He had it all planned in advance. His organisation was all fixed to go on without him. He had all of his people filled in. They knew he wasn’t coming back from that rooftop; they just didn’t know that his death would come about at his own hand, rather than mine. They all thought it was me.”

Mycroft understood, at last. So: Sherlock had not, after all, killed himself in despair, unable to face his own public disgracing, but had died instead in a white flame of sacrifice for the people he held most dear. A strange collection: his flatmate, landlady, and a police detective, but it was Sherlock: the fact that there were even three was surprising enough. Strangely enough, knowing that it was sacrifice rather than despair failed to change Mycroft’s feelings about it at all, save that his respect for his brother grew even more. “I see,” he said slowly. “So, for the past three years…you’ve been rooting out the rest of the organisation, I presume?”

Sherlock fidgeted. “I had to. I had to make sure they were safe before I could come back. I had no way of knowing how many fail-safes there were to the plan, how many potential assassins there really were. I had to wait long enough, to make sure, and I certainly had enough to do, tracking all the major players down.”

Mycroft’s eyes focused sharply on Sherlock’s. “But you have,” he said, confirming. “You have brought down the organisation.”

Sherlock looked tired again. “It took me a long time. But yes. Eventually.”

He was really too thin. And was that a scar on his forehead, or just a shadow? “Are you all right?” Mycroft asked quietly. 

Sherlock’s chin jerked up at this, as though surprised, or caught out. “Yes,” he said, too quickly. “I’m fine.” He paused. “Thank you,” he added, uncharacteristically. 

“You’re much too thin.”

“I’m… I’ll be fine,” Sherlock repeated. Another pause. “I need a favour, Mycroft. That’s why I’ve come.”

“Name it,” Mycroft said, unhesitating. “I owe you.”

Sherlock flinched as though he’d been struck. He bent forward, long fingers partially covering his face and digging into his hair.

Mycroft was slightly alarmed. “Sherlock – are you – ”

“Would you mind not using that phrase,” Sherlock mumbled, words obscured by his palms. 

“Of course,” Mycroft said, not understanding and still uncertain as to what had happened. “I’m sorry…I…”

“It’s all right,” Sherlock said. With a seeming effort, he collected himself, sat up again and dropped his hands into his lap. He didn’t explain, though Mycroft waited a moment, watching his brother with concern. 

“Well… what can I do for you?” he asked. The answer would be yes, regardless of the request. Given that he was the reason Moriarty had been able to force Sherlock into throwing himself from a building and three years of subsequent disappearance, and God only knew where he’d been or what had happened to him during that time, Mycroft certainly _did_ owe him. Anything and everything he could do, he would do. Perhaps he should say that. “Anything you need,” he said gently, too gently, but he was so grateful to find Sherlock not dead, to have a second chance with him, and still so guilty over his part in Sherlock’s downfall, that the tone couldn’t be helped. He’d been properly humbled and he wasn’t going to forget it soon. 

Sherlock glanced up at him, a flicker of light-blue catching in the rising sun outside the window. “Anything, Mycroft? No terms, no conditions? No strings?”

“No,” Mycroft said, his voice low. “Anything at all.”

“It may sound odd,” Sherlock warned. 

“I don’t give a toss for odd. You’re my brother, and you’re back,” Mycroft said firmly. Too abruptly, but Sherlock would understand. “What do you need?”

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment, his eyes slightly narrowed; he was forming some manner of internal deduction. Then he smiled. A real smile. One Mycroft had almost never seen, at least not directed at himself. He’d seen it on camera directed at John Watson, and that was about it. The effect was almost shattering. He hoped he wouldn’t cry or something ridiculous like that.

Sherlock indicated the file folder. “In this folder, I’ve collected various proofs along the way, over the past few years,” he said. “It’s for you, and for Lestrade and the Yard. Show it to them, will you? You’ll find photos and documents, organised into files, dated and occasionally even time-stamped. There are video clips on the USB and some documents there, too. I’ve collected it all just for this moment. I need my name cleared, legally and officially. I want to come back and I want to do it properly. I need you to arrange for media coverage, just in print, as much of it as you can get. I want all the evidence that I was never a fraud and entirely innocent all along all over every newspaper in the nation, and outside it, too, if you think it necessary. I want to give an interview explaining exactly what my reasons for my apparent suicide were. Will you do that for me?”

Mycroft was jotting down notes. “Yes,” he said, without looking up. “Of course. That’s easy enough. What else?”

Sherlock hesitated, fingers twisting. “Can you have it printed by tomorrow morning?”

“I don’t see why not,” Mycroft said, putting his pen down and looking up now. “Are you in a hurry?”

“Three years is a long enough time to wait, don’t you think?” Sherlock returned obliquely. 

_To wait for what, precisely?_ Mycroft wanted to ask, but instead he said, “All right. What else? Do you need a place to stay? Do you have enough money? I have a lot of your personal effects. The rest are – ” he caught himself. Sensitive subject area, possibly?

Sherlock’s eyes were fixed upon his, his attention taut as a wire. “Where?”

Mycroft let out his breath. “At Baker Street.”

Sherlock’s throat worked, swallowing. “Is John – ”

“Yes. He’s still there.”

“Is he – ”

Sherlock stopped himself and Mycroft wondered how he’d meant to finish the question. _Still a doctor? Living alone? Married?_

“ – all right?” Sherlock finally finished, awkward.

Mycroft was careful to keep his tone gentle. “I don’t know,” he said cautiously. “He certainly wasn’t all right for a long time afterward. He’s working. He dates occasionally – very occasionally, but there’s no one regular around. He’s stayed at Baker Street all this time. Occasionally goes to see his parents. Nothing out of the usual.”

Sherlock seemed to be struggling to keep something under control. After a bit, he said, “He’s going to be angry with me.”

“I should think so, yes.”

“Very angry.”

“I imagine he’ll also be quite relieved,” Mycroft pointed out. “He – ” _loved you_ , is what he wanted to say, but it wasn’t as though Watson had told him that. He just felt it must be true. “He cared for you. Quite a lot.”

“I know,” Sherlock said, somewhat to Mycroft’s surprise. “This is why I need you to do this. After it’s printed, I need you to make sure that John reads the newspaper. I need him to know why before he sees me again, or else I might never have a chance to explain.”

Mycroft considered this. “You think he’d refuse to see you?”

“He might.” Sherlock looked away again, looking both pained and uncertain. 

Mycroft felt a pang, realising afresh that he’d been the cause of this, of Sherlock having spent three years without his John, busy trying to save John’s life, if only John had known. And it was true: Mycroft knew John Watson to be a man who made emotionally-based decisions and could very well let his anger cloud his ability to sit down and listen to a proper explanation. His very upset-ness would prevent him from hearing the solution to his grief and rage. “I’ll see that it happens,” he promised Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked over at him in a mixture of pure relief and gratitude. “Thank you,” he said, sounding as though he meant it entirely. He still looked tired – more than tired, he looked wrung-out, exhausted. 

“I’ll get it on it as soon as it’s a decent hour to start making calls,” Mycroft said, glancing at the time. It was only six-thirty. “Meanwhile, if I may, you look a wreck. When did you get back to England?”

“Last night,” Sherlock said. “I came the moment I could.”

Mycroft nodded, his feelings of both respect and sympathy deepening. “You look as though you could do with a rest. And a meal. When did you last eat?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know. Yesterday sometime.”

Mycroft shook his head. “If you survive John’s reaction, he’s going to be force-feeding you. Let me order you something.”

“If we get that far,” Sherlock said, sounding uncharacteristically depressed and ignoring the second thing Mycroft had said. 

Mycroft decided not to try for false comfort; he could hardly predict Watson’s reaction himself. He picked up the phone. “What would you like to eat?” he asked Sherlock. 

“I don’t care.”

Mycroft sighed, then smiled; this was an entirely typical response. “I’ll order you breakfast. Full English?”

“Fine,” Sherlock said dismissively. 

“And after, you can sleep. The sofa by the wall is quite comfortable,” Mycroft said, then spoke his order into the phone before Sherlock could respond. He finished the order and looked at his gaunt, worn sibling and thought, yes. He would stand over Sherlock and make him eat, and then he would leave the office and let him sleep until the reporters were ready. He’d call a stylist and have them powder away the bruises under his brother’s eyes, style his hair so that he looked every bit his former self. Right now, even the long, dark locks on his brother’s forehead looked tired. 

But first, breakfast. 

***

He woke Sherlock in time to get prepped for the impromptu press conference. Sherlock had stated that he would prefer print media only, and made it quite clear that he would not be wearing a deer stalker at any point. Mycroft had laughed at that, relieved to hear Sherlock sounding like his old self again. He allowed the press to set up in his office, adjusting light volumes for the photos and sound levels on the recording equipment. While Sherlock slept, and continuing as he was being prepared, Mycroft reviewed the contents of the file folder. He read and read, saving the USBs for later. The press wouldn’t require the proofs and Mycroft had every confidence that if Sherlock said the proof was there, it was. He glanced at his brother, then stepped into the corridor to place a call. 

The phone rang three times before a gruff, hurried voice picked up. “Inspector Lestrade.”

“Lestrade,” Mycroft said. “Mycroft Holmes.”

Pause. “Mycroft,” Lestrade said. “Been awhile. Good to hear from you. Something up?”

“Rather,” Mycroft said, glancing at his closed office door. “Listen,” he said. “Do you have some time this afternoon? I could use your assistance on a matter of some importance to us both, I think.”

“This afternoon?” Lestrade sounded slightly incredulous. “Er – just a moment.” There was a sound of a palm muffling the mouthpiece, vague background voices speaking together, and then he was back. “Yeah, all right, I can do that,” he said. “I’ll work it out with my team. Where should I meet you?”

“My office,” Mycroft said. 

“When?”

Mycroft checked the time. Five to one and the conference was set to begin at one. “As soon as you can get here.”

“Ten minutes,” Lestrade said, and rang off. 

Mycroft went back inside and waited for it all to begin. Photos took place first, and then the interview started. A buzz in Mycroft’s pocket let him know that Lestrade had arrived. He gathered the file and slipped unnoticed into the corridor again. 

They shook hands even as Mycroft put a finger to his lips. “Press conference in my office,” he said, explaining. “Thank you for coming.”

“Yeah, all right,” Lestrade said, frowning. “Press conference? What’s that about?”

Mycroft put a hand on the other man’s shoulder. “This is going to be a bit of a shock,” he warned. He cleared his throat. “I think it best to just say it straight out: my brother is alive.”

The shock set in immediately. “Oh God,” Lestrade said. He pitched forward slightly, one hand coming up to the bridge of his nose. “Oh _God_. You’re not serious!”

“I am,” Mycroft said. Then, “I know. I only just found out myself.”

Lestrade was recovering already, straightening up, hand still held to his face. “You just – how? When? _How_?”

The second “how” was clearly meant in reference to Sherlock. “It’s a bit of a long story,” Mycroft said. “He’s in there now, explaining his side of things to the press. But he brought us this and asked me to share it with you. It’s a lot of material but I hoped you could review it in time to give a statement at the end of Sherlock’s interview, at least enough to just say that he’s been cleared.”

Lestrade looked at the thick file folder for the first time and his eyebrows lifted nearly to his hairline. “Better be a long interview!”

“I know it’s a lot,” Mycroft said apologetically. “I’ve already got a start on it, I’ll help you…”

“And he couldn’t have waited to give his interview until after we’d sorted all this?” Lestrade was incredulous.

“He was quite particular about wanting it to be in the papers straight away,” Mycroft explained. “He’s… well, he wants John to see it before he sees John.”

Lestrade gave a bark of laughter. “Thinks that’s going to help his cause, does he?”

“It should,” Mycroft said. “You haven’t heard the story.”

“Well – can I?” Lestrade asked. He jerked a thumb toward the door. “Is that private, or can we sit in, or listen in, or something?”

“Why don’t we listen in? I don’t want him to get distracted if he sees you,” Mycroft said. He gestured to a room next to his office. “We’ll be able to hear it from here. And there’s a desk and a laptop. There are USBs to review as well.”

“Oh Lord. Can I get a coffee or something?” Lestrade asked. 

“Of course. I’ll order one,” Mycroft said smoothly. “Black, one sugar?”

“I’m not even going to ask how you know that. Sherlock’s brother, right?” Lestrade shook his head with a half-grin. “Bloody hell. I can’t believe he’s alive. That great git, where’s he _been_ all this time?” 

“All over, it seems. I’m just beginning to find out myself,” Mycroft said, unlocking the office beside his own. 

“John really is going to punch him. And he’ll deserve it.”

“Perhaps,” Mycroft allowed. He turned on the lights and went to the laptop, clicked his way through several screens and started streaming various feeds, finally selecting the one that led from his office. He turned the speakers on and Sherlock’s deep voice filled the room. 

Lestrade, who had been sorting the folder into various piles, started upon hearing the voice. He sat down abruptly, eyes focused on the pile in front of him. Mycroft felt a twinge of sympathy. 

“I was given a choice,” Sherlock’s voice was saying from the laptop’s speakers. “I had to go along with the lie, the notion that I was a fraud and had invented Moriarty and all of his crimes. It all concluded with me throwing myself from a building in disgrace. If didn’t, his people were going to kill my friends.”

Mycroft watched Lestrade, who was telegraphing no particular emotion as yet but was listening as though his life depended on it. 

“Which friends?” a reporter asked. 

“The three people closest to me,” Sherlock responded. “My best friend, John Watson. My landlady, Mrs Hudson. And Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade with Scotland Yard.”

Lestrade’s eyes closed, his brows creasing. A hand came up and rubbed over his forehead. “God,” he groaned. “And after I…”

Mycroft almost wished he could tell him, almost wanted to say, _Don’t worry, I betrayed him, too, only mine was far worse_. But he couldn’t, so he said only, “He considered you a friend. No matter what.” He also didn’t point out that he himself had not made the list. 

They kept listening. “John Watson,” a different reporter said. “That was your blogger, right? The military doctor?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said. “And my flatmate.”

“How long did you live together?” A different voice. 

“Over a year and a half.”

“You must have been quite close.” The first reporter again. 

“Very,” Sherlock confirmed. 

There was a slight silence in the room, as though the reporters were exchanging glances. The third voice spoke again. “And the rumours concerning your… relationship with Dr Watson?” she asked delicately. 

“Were false. But he was – is – my best friend.”

“Best friend that you lived and worked with?” The second reporter pressed. “Strictly platonic, that?”

“It was, yes,” Sherlock replied calmly. “But I was closer to him that I’ve ever been to anyone. It has… caused me no small amount of pain to have had to do what I did in front of him, and consequently to have been away from him for so long. I can only hope that he will find it in his heart to forgive me.”

The first reporter cleared her throat. “Well, given that you did it to save his life, he’ll have to, won’t he! How do you expect he’ll react when he sees you? Will he faint? Hug you?”

“I expect he’ll punch me,” Sherlock said ruefully, and all three women laughed. 

“He’d cut his fist on those cheekbones,” the third reporter said flirtatiously. 

“Please delete that,” Sherlock said, and Mycroft could hear the frown in his voice. “He won’t like that. The entire point of this interview is for his benefit. Delete that, too. Ask me more about my time away,” he commanded. 

Lestrade chuckled at that, jolting Mycroft back into the room. He didn’t need to ask why Lestrade had laughed; it was obvious. Sherlock was definitely back. 

“Right,” Lestrade said briskly. “Let’s see, what order has he got this in? This is the first year, this bit in Prague comes next, then what?”

“New York,” Mycroft said, pointing at the appropriate section. “I’ll start looking at the USBs.”

“Great.”

***

Forty minutes later, the interview was winding down when Mycroft and Lestrade re-entered the office. Mycroft heard Sherlock’s sharp inhalation at seeing Lestrade. Mycroft raised his hand to the reporters. “Excuse us,” he said. “I’d like to introduce Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard. He’s here to make a statement to be included in your report.”

“Of course,” said the woman belonging to the first voice he’d heard. She stood, hand extended toward Lestrade. “Annette Cromwell with the _Times_.”

“Greg Lestrade,” Lestrade said. He was fitted with a microphone, carefully avoiding Sherlock’s eyes, though Sherlock was looking at him intently. 

Lestrade cleared his throat, faced the reporters, winced a little in the glare of the photographer’s lamp. “This is a preliminary statement on behalf of Scotland Yard that new evidence has come to light that conclusively proves not only the innocence of Sherlock Holmes of any wrongdoing or criminal activity, but also proves his involvement in taking down possibly the largest criminal network of our time. Official documents will be released within a few days, but at this point we can announce it publicly: Sherlock Holmes is innocent. James Moriarty, as you all know already, shot himself in the face and forced Mr Holmes into taking his own life, using the lives of his friends as direct leverage. Luckily Sherlock was a step ahead of the game, as per usual, and survived his apparent suicide. I am,” Lestrade went on, clearing his throat again, “very privileged to have been one of the friends whose lives he saved. I don’t deserve the honour, and frankly none of us do after having doubted Mr Holmes and his work for even a second. England is a greater nation because of him and the world is a safer place. We’ll all sleep better in our beds knowing that Sherlock Holmes is amongst us once again. Thank you.”

Lestrade nodded at the reporters and stepped out of the light. Sherlock stood and took a step toward him. Lestrade looked at him for a moment, then grabbed and bear-hugged him. Sherlock returned it unhesitatingly, Mycroft was amazed to witness. “Thank you,” he heard Sherlock say gruffly, face turned away from Lestrade’s neck. 

“I’m sorry,” he heard Lestrade mumble back. “God, Sherlock, I’m – ”

“Stop it,” Sherlock ordered. “It’s all over now.”

They broke apart. Lestrade put his hands on his hips and chuckled. “You been eating? John’s going to punch you when he sees how thin you’ve got, never mind the rest. You’re all bone, mate.”

Sherlock winced. “If we get as far as the subject of food, I’ll be doing well.”

“Too right,” Lestrade said, feelingly. “Good luck with that!”

“I’ll need it.”

“If you need a pint later, give me a shout.”

“I will.”

“I hope you won’t. Need to, that is.” Still grinning, Lestrade turned back to Mycroft. “Shall we dive back in? I know we’ve got a good handle on it, but I meant it when I said I want those official reports out stat.”

Mycroft smiled at him, grateful for the detective’s enthusiasm for the task. “I’d be delighted. Back to the other office?”

“Some more coffee, too,” Lestrade said over his shoulder, leading the way out. 

Mycroft smiled to himself. “As you say.”

***

It was hours later when they finally finished. Many hours. Mycroft had not looked at the time in ages. Sherlock had finished with the press much earlier and allowed Mycroft to have him escorted to his flat in a car, where an assistant was to set him up with a laptop and reacquaint him with his possessions. Meanwhile, he and Lestrade had spent the rest of the day going through Sherlock’s file. 

It was just past six now and they had finished. Lestrade sat back with a sigh of relief, but the relief didn’t wholly erase the concern that had lined his forehead increasingly as the day had gone on. “Well,” he said. He looked at Mycroft. 

“I know,” Mycroft said grimly. 

Lestrade rubbed at his eyes. “For what it’s worth… I never would have asked him to do all this. Not for me.”

Mycroft leaned back in his own chair and crossed his legs at the knee. “I rather think the point is that you didn’t have to. Once Sherlock has decided to care, he cares and you’re stuck with it, I think.”

Lestrade tried to smile, but the worry still won out. “I don’t half deserve it,” he said again. “But I’m glad that, for whatever reason, he’s chosen me as a friend. It was rough when we lost him.”

“That it was,” Mycroft agreed quietly. 

Lestrade glanced over. “Still a bit of a shock, I’d imagine.”

“Quite, yes.” Mycroft shuffled some papers together and began to slide them back into the file folder. 

“And all this,” Lestrade said, waving toward the stacks. “Do you think he’s… all right?”

“I don’t know yet,” Mycroft said, sombre. “This sort of thing… it could damage a person. Extensively.”

“The bit when he was captured outside Warsaw,” Lestrade said. “I mean, he makes light mention of it, but essentially they tortured him, right?”

“Yes.”

“Should he see a, I don’t know, a therapist or something?”

Mycroft levelled him with a look. “Can you see Sherlock agreeing to seeing a therapist? _Sherlock_?”

“No. But still…” Lestrade trailed off. 

“No.” Mycroft was abrupt. “What he needs, and all he really needs, is John.”

Lestrade thought about this for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. I’d say you’ve got that right. Here’s hoping John, er, takes him back, then.”

“He’d better.” Mycroft bit it out. He gestured toward the Poland stack. “After all that Sherlock has suffered for John’s sake, he’d better.”

“And mine,” Lestrade reminded him. “And Mrs Hudson.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, not wishing to offend, but it had to be said. “But – and I don’t intend any offence with this, but I rather think John was at the top of that list.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Lestrade agreed. “Yeah. You think anything was going on with them? I mean – we all joked about it at the Yard, but really, do you think – ?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. And I was never sure whether it was best that they had evidently decided to remain platonic or if it had just never come up.”

“It _must_ have, sometime,” Lestrade argued. “They were closer than friends. Everyone could see it.”

“Yes, but it’s also Sherlock we’re discussing,” Mycroft pointed out. “He’s never been in a relationship. I don’t even think he’s even had any experience of the physical sort. And John Watson claims to be straight.”

Lestrade’s snort showed rather succinctly what he thought of that notion. “Is there an orientation for Sherlock-sexual? Because if there is, that’s what I’d say John is. Not that I’m judging, I actually think they’d be rather good together. I mean, they _were_ good together. John was a good influence on him, and somehow, in his own strange way, Sherlock was good for John, too. They’d better not bollocks this up.”

Mycroft found himself tempted to smile. “I quite agree.” He checked the time again. “I should go,” he said. “Sherlock’s at my flat. I should make sure he eats again and hasn’t blown anything up yet.”

“Right,” Lestrade said, understanding immediately. He stood as Mycroft did. “I’m glad you asked me to come today,” he said. “I’m glad I could be here to see him.”

“It’s on me to thank you,” Mycroft said. “This was a lot of work.”

“It’s not work when it’s for a friend,” Lestrade said, shaking his head. “He’s my friend. He always will be. I’ll have those official reports out just as fast as I can push them through the blue tape.”

Mycroft did smile now. “Thank you.” It was all he said, but it was enough. 

***

He found Sherlock by the fire, perusing a copy of _Faust_ , a German one. 

“Can you still understand it?” Mycroft asked. “It’s been a long time since you took German.”

Sherlock looked up and put the book down on his knee. “I understand most of it. Enough to appreciate the poetry.” He indicated the mobile phone sitting on the arm of the chair. “Plus, translations apps for when I need a word.”

“Ah.” Mycroft set down his briefcase and looked around. Everything seemed intact, miraculously. He went over and sat down in the other chair in front of the fire. “How are you doing?” He looked over at his brother, held his eye. 

Sherlock looked away, but didn’t withdraw his attention with it. “I’m all right,” he said quietly. “It’s… it’s been…”

Mycroft waited, but Sherlock didn’t seem inclined to finish his sentence. After a small silence had formed, he broke it deliberately. “We finished going through your paperwork,” he said. “You were very thorough. Thank you. It will make it a very simple task to have your name officially cleared.”

“You read it all?” Sherlock was speaking to the volume balanced on his leg. 

“We did. Yes.” Mycroft hesitated. Should he say something more?

Sherlock breathed deeply. The shadows from the fire exaggerated the angular cut of his cheekbones. He was as thin as he’d been back in those dark years before John Watson had limped his way into Sherlock’s life. “It was… bad, some of it,” Sherlock said, still not looking at him. 

“I know.” Mycroft said gently. “Hence my question: are you all right? Really?”

“I will be.”

“But you’re not, not yet.”

“Perhaps not.” Sherlock allowed. He glanced over, just a flick of the eyes. “I just want to go home again. If I can.”

Mycroft felt sympathy. It was a rare feeling for him, practically nonexistent. He felt very much personally responsible for not only Sherlock’s safety, but also his happiness. It was as though he felt that if only Sherlock’s return could be made to go well, it would begin – only begin – to absolve him. And if things worked with John, he might even be allowed to stop feeling so terribly guilty all of the time. He could not have explained why the two things were so irrevocably connected in his head, but they were. Or perhaps he could explain it: surely all of the signs had indicated that Sherlock and John had grown and were continuing to grow closer and closer. Surely that would have come to a head, either disastrously or successfully, but Mycroft’s betrayal had allowed Moriarty to engineer Sherlock’s disappearance, if not his death. Moriarty had still driven a wedge between them, a wedge of three years of silence and a death falsely mourned. There was no easy solution. Only the strength of John’s previous feelings could save Sherlock from his deserved/wholly undeserved wrath. But the blame, apart from Moriarty, lay with Mycroft. John Watson, he had known for years now, was the cornerstone to Sherlock’s happiness, even the key to unlocking the softer sides of his character. Those things which made him human, and not the cold machine that others accused him of being. But his brother was human, perhaps all too human. He had a heart, one that his closest friends had doubted until now, until being given unreasonably clear proof of the extent of his care for them. Moriarty had known that long before any of them had, had known how human Sherlock was. How human he himself was, too, Mycroft thought with a start. He’d known that Mycroft was susceptible to pride, to flattery, that his lifelong rivalry with his younger brother and his decision to isolate himself from the realm of human weaknesses could be combined and exploited to devastating effect. Moriarty had known all along that the real key to the Holmes brothers was the very fact that they were not the machines they had tried to make themselves, and three years later they were both still paying for his ability to understand their hearts. 

“He’ll understand,” he heard himself telling Sherlock, insistent. “He’s got to. Once he reads the interview, he’ll know what you did for him, and why. He’ll know that you couldn’t warn him.”

“I looked for ways to contact him,” Sherlock said, to the flames. “But I couldn’t take the risk. And the moment I was sure it was safe, I decided to just come back. Seemed faster.”

Mycroft nodded, though Sherlock would only see it peripherally. “It will be all right. Are you hungry?”

“That again?” Sherlock almost smiled. “You sound like John.”

Mycroft stood and picked up his phone. “I could do worse.”

***

In the end, he took Sherlock to Baker Street himself. He’d had to actively restrain him from going earlier, to give John adequate time to do his reading. Mycroft couldn’t even be sure that John would actually do as instructed and read the damned papers anyway. 

He’d called that morning, waiting until half-past eight. John picked up, his wariness likely due to the blocked number. “Hello?”

Mycroft had taken a measured breath. “John, this is Mycroft Holmes.”

“No,” John said, and disconnected immediately. 

Mycroft tried ringing back, twice, then gritted his teeth and went over. Sherlock was still asleep. He’d rung the bell at 221B and waited, and finally Mrs Hudson had come. Mycroft was unprepared for this, though it should have occurred to him. He forced a nice smile past her flutterings and asked with hard-won calm if he could please see Dr Watson. 

“Ooh, I don’t know if he’s in,” she worried, wringing her hands. 

“I’ll just go up and see,” Mycroft said, with that tone of voice that came across as even, not particularly authoritative, but which never failed to move people into action or, in this case, out of his way. She’d let him brush by and Mycroft climbed the seventeen stairs. 

The _Times_ and two other papers sat outside the door to the flat. Mycroft bent and picked them up, then walked into the flat. He found John hunched over a cup of coffee, obviously aware of his presence. He waited a moment, let it stretch out between them. Finally John spoke. “I don’t want to see you, Mycroft. Please leave.”

“If you’d been willing to speak to me this morning, there’d have been no need to see me,” Mycroft said shortly, out of patience. He walked over, carrying the papers. “I haven’t come at my own behest. I only wanted to alert your attention to today’s _Times_. Or any other paper, but I believe the _Times_ article is the longest, and I think you’ll want detail.”

John looked up at him. He looked tired and old. “What _is_ this, Mycroft? Can’t you leave me alone? I just want – ”

Mycroft slapped the _Times_ down in front of him, headline in his face: _SHERLOCK HOLMES LIVES_ and watched shock wipe the annoyance off John’s face. “It’s not a hoax,” he said, willing his voice to stay even. “It’s not a trick or a cruel joke. He asked me to ensure that you read this, so that you would know his reasons.”

John had gone rigid, mouth clamped tightly shut. His hands came out to touch the newspaper, disbelieving, fingertips brushing the letters. A sound tried to force its way from his throat and died. He tried again, opening his mouth, closing it, trying again. “He’s – he’s – ”

“Yes.” Mycroft said, watching him. 

One fist clenched around the side of the paper. “Where – ”

“My flat. He wants to see you. But not until you’ve read his reasons,” Mycroft said levelly. “Please, no matter how you feel – I know you’ll be angry – please, do at least that much for him.”

John didn’t speak, but his hand clumsily smoothed over the crumpled paper, flattening it out again. His jaw had set again. 

Mycroft laid a card on the kitchen table. “My private number, should you wish to reach – either of us. I have your word that you’ll read it? All of it?”

Numbly, John nodded, not looking at him. 

Mycroft silently laid a hand on John’s shoulder, then took his umbrella and walked back out and down. Mrs Hudson was still hovering anxiously by the door. In answer to her look, Mycroft put on a reassuring smile. “He’ll be all right,” he said. He hesitated. “By the way, have you seen any of the newspapers today?”

Mrs Hudson fussed at her collar. “No, not yet, I usually nip out and buy it at the stand on the corner.”

Mycroft regarded her. She was elderly, but tough. She would bear it better than the rest of them. “I’d get one,” he said. He passed her a card, too. “Just if you need to get in touch with… anyone. Good morning.” He went back to the car. 

In the back seat of the limousine, he opened a laptop and instructed his driver to stay where he was. He’d left the small camera glued to the door frame between the kitchen and the sitting room, with two lenses for multiple angles. It wasn’t kind, but he _needed_ to know what was going to happen. It took the wifi signal a moment to connect, another minute to load the new video stream and then finally Mycroft had it. John was bent over the newspaper reading avidly, his coffee forgotten. Mycroft watched until he came to the end. John sat very still. 

“Son of a bitch,” John said, half-mumbling. “Sherlock. You son of a bitch.” His hands came up to his face, clenched into fists over his eyes. His shoulders heaved but Mycroft didn’t think he was crying. Just breathing heavily and trying to retain control of himself. Then suddenly, after several moments of this, the explosion. Watson was on his feet, shouting. “God! _Why_? Why did you do that? Why couldn’t you have told me? Jesus Christ, Sherlock, what was I supposed to think? What was I supposed to do! God damn it!” The coffee cup got hurled, shattering against the opposite wall, and then the tears came. John was sobbing, slumping against the cupboard doors, sliding down until he was crouched on the floor, face buried in his hands. Other words came followed, moaned through the sobs, but they were too indistinct for Mycroft to catch.

He watched for several more minutes. How long to wait? When was the right moment? John appeared to be in a bad way. Would Sherlock’s presence help or was it too soon? He was consumed with indecision, and glad he’d left John his number. Perhaps he should wait a bit. He instructed the driver to take him home. 

Sherlock was awake and fully dressed, wearing one of his old suits. It hung a little loosely on him but still fit. He’d chosen a deep purple shirt, one that Mycroft recognised from earlier days. The buttons no longer strained but it had been very finely tailored and still hung well on him. Sherlock’s eyes tracked his the minute Mycroft walked in the door of the kitchen where Sherlock was reading his own interview in a strange parallel to Watson. “Did you see him?” he asked without preamble. 

Mycroft went deliberately to the teapot and poured himself a cup. “I did, briefly.”

“Is he reading it? Has he read it?” Sherlock demanded. 

“He promised me that he would,” Mycroft said, withholding the fact that he’d watched John read it. It wouldn’t do to have Sherlock know that there was a camera in the flat. “He didn’t say much, but he gave his word that he would read it.”

Sherlock sprang to his feet and began pacing. “How did he seem?”

“Not pleased to see me,” Mycroft said dryly. “I had to go over in person because he refused to speak to me on the phone.”

Sherlock’s brow wrinkled. “He wanted to see you in person?”

“Hardly. He wouldn’t speak to me at all. Disconnected the moment I identified myself.”

For a brief second, he could have sworn that Sherlock smiled, but it was gone before he could be sure. Then, “When do you think I should go over?”

If Sherlock was asking his advice on a topic such as this, he was truly feeling out of his depth. Mycroft tasted the irony for a moment: as if he knew any better, himself. He chose his words with care. “I’m not sure,” he said. “He… may be upset, you realise. It might be better to give him some time. Or let him make the first move. I left him my number. My private number.”

Sherlock nodded, but seemed lost in his own thoughts, not looking at him. “Thank you,” he said after a moment, as an afterthought. He shot Mycroft another look, pierced with uncertainty. “Do you think I _should_ wait? If he’s upset – ” He broke off, frowning. “I wish I _knew_ ,” he muttered, frowning. 

Mycroft sighed, wishing he did, too. “I think,” he said, “that in this instance, you should do as your instincts dictate.”

“I can’t be wrong about this, Mycroft. I _can’t_. There’s too much at stake.”

“You can’t be right about everything,” Mycroft said softly. “I know that’s difficult.”

“This isn’t a case or a game or a hypothesis. This is my life. This is John.” Sherlock was pacing again. 

“I know that.” Mycroft’s phone beeped and they both looked at it. A text message. It was short. 

_I need to see him.  
-JW_

Wordless, Mycroft held it out to Sherlock, who seemed paralysed by it, mouth falling open. “Come on,” Mycroft said. “I’ll take you.”

He drove Sherlock himself. No drivers this time. They made the short trip in silence, Sherlock tense and fidgeting to his left. When they reached Baker Street, Mycroft put his hand on Sherlock’s arm. He didn’t know what would happen, and if it went sour, what Sherlock would do. He wanted to say, _Don’t disappear on me again. You know that if this doesn’t work, you have other friends. You’ll always have a place somewhere. Don’t leave again._ Instead, when he opened his mouth to speak, he said the only thing that came to his lips. “Tell him that you love him.”

Sherlock’s arm jerked reflexively. He didn’t say anything, but his eyes met Mycroft’s. He didn’t nod or scowl, just gave him a long look, then took a deep breath and got out of the car. Mycroft watched him hesitate outside, then opened the door with his key and went inside. 

***

Mycroft watched from the car. He felt as deeply invested in this as though he were one of them. He wanted so badly for it to work, not just because he cared about Sherlock and wanted him to be happy, but he craved the resolution for his own absolution. He saw John sitting in Sherlock’s armchair, watching the door and waiting. 

The door opened and Sherlock stood there, a gaunt shadow of his former self, armoured in his coat. He looked terribly vulnerable, at least to Mycroft. “John,” he said, and his voice was hollow. 

John raised his head but didn’t move. His face looked as though he’d lived and died ten times over since Mycroft’s visit that morning. He swallowed. 

A long silence stretched out between them, in their held gaze. Finally John spoke. “You’re alive.” It was quiet and his voice cracked on the second word, but it didn’t matter. 

Sherlock nodded. “You – read the papers?” His voice was jerky.

John unclenched himself and stood up. “I read them,” he said. His shoulders were squaring, as though bracing himself for battle. Ever the soldier. “Sherlock – I – ”

Sherlock went still, waiting. “Yes?”

John appeared to be fighting with himself, trying to decide what he wanted to say. “There are about a thousand things I need to ask, but all I can think of right now is _why_ , why you would do that do me, make me watch you jump, let me mourn you all this time, why you never contacted me to let me know you were alive, that you were okay, why you didn’t let me go with you, why you did it, any of it – I – I can’t – ”

Suddenly his right knee buckled and Sherlock took a swift stride toward him, but John recovered himself and held an arm out, keeping Sherlock at bay. Sherlock stopped, hands working, clearly frustrated. “I couldn’t,” he said, sounding as helpless as he looked. “I wanted to, and I couldn’t. They would have known if you had known. You’re too – ”

A flush of anger bloomed suddenly on John’s cheeks. “I’m too what?” he demanded, voice full of warning. 

Thin ice. _Tread carefully,_ Mycroft thought at Sherlock. “Too honest,” Sherlock said, blinking. “They would have known if you knew I was alive. And there was no way. I thought about it over and over and over again, trying to think of a way to let you know, to contact you. I couldn’t take the risk. And sometimes, I physically couldn’t – I was detained a few times, and – and it had to look real, John, two deaths would have been too obvious.”

John stared at him, eyes red-rimmed and sore. “I would have gone with you, you know.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. He took another step closer. “I would have liked nothing more than to have had you with me.” He took a deep breath and corrected himself. “Well, I would have liked nothing more than for it to have never happened. I never wanted you to get hurt.”

John shook his head. “But you don’t control the universe. And I did. Christ, Sherlock, nothing has ever, _ever_ affected me like losing you did.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, biting his lower lip. He went closer and John put his hand out again. 

“No – Sherlock, don’t – I can’t – I don’t want – ” John was angry, stumbling over his words, but determined to speak. “Look, I read the papers, I assume it was you who sent Mycroft to make sure that I did, and I’m starting to understand, but I don’t get how you could have just let me go three years – three _years_ , Sherlock! Thinking that you were dead, sick over it, unable to work, to do anything, anything at all, with you gone – and you were off chasing criminals and doing all that, without me – I can’t – and yet now that I know why you did, it just – it’s too much, all at once. I don’t even know if I’m more angry or more upset or – I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut and I can’t even breathe.”

Sherlock took another breath and took another step, well into hitting range. “I love you.”

A spasm of anger crossed John’s face and he drew back and swung, fist crashing toward Sherlock’s face. But for all the weight he’d lost, Sherlock had apparently not lost his strength with it. He caught John’s fist and forced it down. “No you don’t!” John shouted. “If you had, you never would have – ” His words were cut off when Sherlock bent his head and kissed him. 

Mycroft suddenly realised that every muscle in his body was tensed, and it wasn’t safe to relax yet. Would John throw him off, reject him?

He didn’t. John made a sound that barely made it through the speakers, then grabbed onto Sherlock’s shoulders and held on for dear life, kissing back with every ounce of his strength. It went on for several long minutes until they broke apart, tears tracking down John’s cheeks, and – to Mycroft’s astonishment, Sherlock’s, too. “John,” he heard Sherlock say, voice raw and low and broken. “John…”

“Shut up,” John said roughly. He put both hands on Sherlock’s face and forced their mouths together again. Sherlock’s hands came up to hold John’s face as they kissed, long thumbs sweeping away the tears still running down John’s cheeks. “You bastard,” John said, voice thick with tears and anger, lips almost touching Sherlock’s. “You sodding bastard. How long?”

“Always.” Sherlock closed the space between them again, then said it again, after. “Always.”

John gave a sound like a sob, hands clawing at Sherlock’s coat, shoving it down his shoulders and arms, going for the expensive suit jacket next. Sherlock let himself be divested of it, letting it fall to the faded carpet without so much as a thought, eyes hungrily watching John’s face as John’s fingers went to work on the buttons of the purple shirt. “…should have told me,” Mycroft heard John say, just audible. 

Sherlock was just standing in front of him, letting John’s hands strip him bare, lips parted. “And you should have told me.”

“How could I?” John demanded, tossing the shirt to the floor and looking up into Sherlock’s face.

“How could _I_?” Sherlock threw back. Stalemate, but now Sherlock’s hands had got tangled in the front of John’s jumper, suddenly hauling it over John’s head. He was using his height to its full advantage now, looming over John and backing him toward the sofa. John went willingly and when his legs hit the coffee table he pushed it out of the way with a foot and pulled Sherlock down on top of himself. 

It occurred to Mycroft that he should stop watching now, but he wanted to see it through. It wasn’t – it wasn’t perversion or twisted interest; he needed this to work, needed to know how it would finish. He would take the camera back, and maybe even the speaker feed from the sitting room. But not yet. 

He could hear Sherlock moaning, saw four legs twining together as Sherlock’s hips ground down against John, could hear John’s voice, breathy in his responses, body lifting to meet Sherlock’s. He saw John’s hands move from Sherlock’s back to his arse, heard Sherlock’s vocalised response to that. Then the hands disappeared and he heard low murmuring, agreed assent, and Sherlock was on his feet again, readily stepping out of everything else he’d been wearing and now really was the time for Mycroft to look away, but he couldn’t. John was making a similar effort, still on his back, wrenching off his clothing and leaving it on the floor. Mycroft squinted a little, not really needing to see John Watson in all his naked (and aroused) glory, but apparently the sight was just fine by Sherlock’s standards. 

He heard his brother drawn in breath as though he’d never breathed before. “You,” he murmured. 

John smiled up at him, his face full of invitation. “Come here,” he said, and Sherlock did as he was bidden. His long, bony frame moved toward and onto John Watson’s again, lips and bellies and thighs meeting, and probably everything else, too. They were moving together, a first encounter between lovers who had refused to acknowledge what they were for over four years now. It should have been bittersweet, but the bitterness had been lost somewhere. He heard Sherlock gasping, could only guess at what a first time at the age of thirty-seven must feel like, especially fuelled with all the burning emotion his brother transparently felt. He hoped it was worth the wait, but knew without proof that it was. 

***

When it was finished, they lay tangled in each other’s arms. Finally Sherlock spoke, after he’d caught his breath again. “For three years, all I wanted was you,” he said into John’s chest. 

“For three years, all _I_ wanted was you,” John echoed, hands stroking over Sherlock’s back and hair. 

“I love you,” Sherlock said again. He turned his face up and John put his mouth on Sherlock’s, murmuring a response that Mycroft didn’t need the speakers to pick up to confirm. 

He realised with a start that his eyes were moist. He’d stayed long enough. Mycroft closed the laptop and left them in peace. He’d done what he could to make it right. And since John had come through, none of them would lose Sherlock again. There was time for second chances, time to earn a place on his brother’s list. There was a tight knot of some hard-bound emotion in his chest that Mycroft couldn’t quite identify, some prickly combination of yearning and envy and pangs of unrealised passion and… loneliness. He was lonely. He was envious. That wholeness of Sherlock and John, so broken without each other and more than whole when put together again, at last – for the first time in Mycroft’s life, he craved that. He swallowed, started up the car, and began to drive. He didn’t know where he was going yet. He drove aimlessly and couldn’t remember the last time he’d done that, either. 

Before he knew it, he realised he’d found his destination. A quiet side street, lined with linden trees. He pulled out his phone and dialled. 

“Hello?” Lestrade. At home, unpredictably. 

“It’s Mycroft,” Mycroft said. 

“Mycroft! What can I do for you?”

He felt a smile trying to begin. “It just occurred to me that I owe you dinner,” he said. “That was a lot of work yesterday. I know it’s still early, but if you’re free, we could have a drink beforehand, if you’re free…?”

Was it just his imagination, or did Lestrade answer more quickly than he’d expected? “I’m free,” he said at once. “And I’d like that. Very much, in fact. Er, when and where?”

“I’m outside,” Mycroft said, and rang off. 

 

_fin_


End file.
